


Dramaturge I

by Tribs



Series: No Longer in Progress Series Parts [8]
Category: Invisible Sun (Roleplaying Game), The Strange (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Demon Pactmaking, Drinking, Gen, Implied/Referenced Planet Destruction, Internal use of plural pronouns / External use of singular pronouns, Memoirs, Multiplicity/Plurality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 05:15:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20540705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tribs/pseuds/Tribs
Summary: Satyrine. The Reinvention district.Far Pyramid Theatre. Offices. 9:13 pm.A horned spectacle with writer's block pens out a personal account.





	1. Sliske

Freshly bathed. Soft evening robe. A topped off glass of wine. Fingers ticked through loose notebooks perched across the desk like segments of a tower wall. 

_ This one’s already finished and showing - back on the shelf, there you go. _

_ Snag in the plot in this one. Don’t know a fix to it yet. _

_ Still not feeling this one. _

_ Don’t even know who started that mess there. _

We thumbed through a few leaflets off to the side, exhaled into the glass, and opted for the binder of loose papers tucked behind the desk lamp - Memoirs.

Disjointed accounts, more, but it would be cohesive eventually. There was plenty of time.

We pulled up the chair, clicked a pen, and kicked back.

* * *

_For your reference as much as mine, let us establish the basics of Frenisk. _

(Note to a later self: Move this bit to an earlier chapter, it wouldn’t work to place it after all those portions regarding youth.)

_ It is a fragment plane nestled off the shoals of a dead world, near to the endless eyesore that is Quisquilian (or the perpetual anxiety that is Quisquilian, if you are bothered that way like Wahis is.) _

_ Unlike Quisquilian, Frenisk is not full of trash that blows about everywhere, only compiled in the shivering arms of scholars who strip their nerves raw clawing for shreds of knowledge which may or may not even have any significance to anyone still moving. _

_ Frenisk is a dare sight crueller, but far more pleasing to look at. _

_ It is an inverted world, in the sense that anyone living there is on the inside of it rather than the outside, and visitors might call it unseasonably warm for all the magma vents that cross through it like veins. Millenia of residents have carved the interior away, into excessive spirals of rock and mural-cities set along cavern faces where tenacious plantlife clings and blooms. Almost beautiful enough to make you forget that the majority of the fauna are artificially introduced, and linger as obligate-carnivorous. _

_ Tev Mahjarrat, one such place. _

_ There is more about its origin, obviously, but Wahis would be able to tell you better than I. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Strange RPG establishes a multiverse centered around different words inside a 'dark matter information network'. Some of these worlds spawn smaller worlds through collectively shared narratives, either crafted individually or on a much more broad, vague scale. Like a mix of moons and alternate realities. Earth is one of these subworld-generating "nexus worlds."
> 
> As mentioned in the last chapter, I'm using a physically linked node network to chain them together, more like a mycorrhizal network than The Strange's data-flavored take.
> 
> Think of it like a high-magic space opera.


	2. Sliske

Long brush swayed around us, jutting up from the jagged claw-trails of dirt set along the reflective stone walkways. Wahisietel was a few paces ahead, prattling on about something or other, and looked pleased enough to be doing it.

The idea to push him down and watch him roll offered itself, and we politely swept it away.

“So, it may very well be that the pillars themselves-”

We interrupted with a gentle pat on his shoulder. “You heard about this from Khalaar, didn’t you?”

He brushed the hand away. “I _ did _ hear about this from Khalaar, and I don’t see how that’s reason to butt in.”

“I wouldn’t dream of interrupting you, brother dear.”

He grumbled, side-eying us as he readjusted his scarf. “You just did.”

“Folklore doesn’t usually catch your eye, is all.”

“It’s perfectly interesting where it suggests historical influence.”

“Suppose we bring Zemouregal there and tie him up on one of them?”

“No.”

“It should validate your little story, one way or the other.”

“Therim keep you, Sliske. No.”

_ So safe, so boring. _

He paused, then gestured to where the curve of the path met one of the chain-elevated platforms.

“A crowd’s formed.”

“Should we go, do you think?”

He didn’t respond, too busy marching along in the little business-like fashion that he did. We trotted along in his wake, suspicion and interest warring for prominence.

* * *

Wahis found a place near Nabor; we had to squeeze in between him and Aitnen, who made a displeased sound and promptly moved. Trindine appeared in his place, Inkeri’s arms draped around her shoulders.

“Ay there ‘Kay.”

We grinned and leaned in close. “Trin - anything so far?”

“Not yet. There’s a Vislae, some Goetic. They’ve just made smalltalk so far. Think they’re waiting for everyone to fill in.”

We nodded, peering over the heads between us and the center. The visitor wasn’t hard to miss.

He had an elaborate outfit on, an encompassing suit of oxidized copper plates and rich purple silks, draped with needless amounts of chains. His feet weren’t visible beneath the tattered wisp-ends of his robe, and he chose to float among the eldest of us like a waiting speaker.

Which, he _ was _a waiting speaker, but the posturing carried the unmistakable air of someone who felt entitled to the auditory space. 

Gankraui stood close to him, taking count of the crowd, and finally gestured for all of us to hush. The Vislae took his cue, raising a gauntlet-clawed hand in acknowledgement. A deep, bassy voice rippled out from somewhere further than beneath the segmented helmet.

“You have gathered swiftly. Impressive. Allow me my introductions.”

He lowered his hand. 

“I am Zaros. Master of Recorded Preordainment, Goetic of the Sixth Degree-”

A ripple passed through the gathering.

“- and I have recently concluded my tenure in the Hall of Records."

“Sick retirement outfit,” Inkeri muttered.

“During my term, I was made aware of a particular type of artifact resultant of the Legacy. Fractals of semisolid material awaiting, in the shores of worlds, for the condensation that will give them physical form. Minute trinkets of significant creative force.” He placed his other hand across his chestplate. “I will not cut corners. I have located such a solidified item’s location, and I intend to procure it for myself.”

His robes flickered as he revolved in a semblance of pacing, drifting wide around the open circle to keep our gazes equally focused; light showmanship.

“You may ask, of course, what this has to do with your family. What I intend may not be a simple task, and I look to expand my network of allegiances. In short, a request for your employment during my venture. In return, I offer you places upon the world which I construct. Administrators, overseers, lesser deities - whatever it may be that you so desire out of your parcel. Knowledge, souls, and monetary sums of significant size are also mine to distribute, should that be preferable.”

He extracted a rolled document from his sleeve, and passed it down to one of the seated elders; hard to see who, but probably Abrogal or Temekel.

“I have drafted the fine print of the proposal here. Please look it over. Tomorrow evening, I will return to this spot. I expect any who wish to accompany me on my venture will be thus gathered.”

He clicked his metallic fingers, and was gone.

Then the arguments started.

* * *

The next afternoon, only a fraction had chosen to pursue the offer. Most of us here were standing, straightening their robes, mingling with tense voices. 

The three of us were comfortably reclined against a rock near the edge. 

“Wahisietel was telling me some narrative about a place full of ritual stones. Canossa?”

“He hear it from Khalaar?”

“He did.”

Trindine had stripped a strand of brush down to thin segments, and was now weaving them back together. “How’d your talk go, by the way? About…? Figured he’d snap up the chance, but I don’t see him.”

Unpleasant memories of the argument rippled through our headspace. 

_ Badly. _

“He won’t be joining us.”

Inkeri, sprawled out on their back, nudged our lap and pointed. “Isn’t that him down there? With Nabor?”

We left Trindine for our feet in an instant, teetering on the edge of the platform for the best angle down. 

He _ was _ there, on one of the paths below. Nabor was with him, and a few others, but they weren’t who he was talking to. That was Khalaar.

_ Maybe. _

“Don’t get your hopes up, ‘Kay.”

“I haven’t the faintest clue what you mean.”

_ Liar. _

We watched, breath bated, as they talked. Finished talking. Wahis turned.

We ducked back to our spot next to Trindine. Eyes fixed anywhere other than where the footpath met the plateau, fingers clasped, reclined. Ears pricked for the footsteps.

They arrived after several minutes, and one pair stopped. We looked to where he was standing, met his eyes, and his usual grumble responded.

A smug piece took front. “You changed your mind, Wahis.”

“Don’t talk to me right now.”

_ We’re glad you did. _

* * *

The Goetic returned when he said he would, but didn’t come alone. The second was armored, to a lesser extent but under the same aesthetic, with hulking wings and a cruel, sharp demeanor that put her decidedly in the category of some eviscerating spirit.

Kin, so to speak. Not that she spoke much, and when she did it was quiet, obscured through the heavy veil of a century’s worth of cigars. 

Trindine and Inkeri were both visibly smitten.

Zaros himself took in the congregation, the sharp fingers of a gauntlet clicking in thought against the orb clenched in his palm. 

“Is this all of you?”

Everyone pretended to take stock of each other, muttering a vague type of agreement.

“... Very well.”

He flicked his wrist, tossing the crystalline sphere up with a sharp spin. Its contents flickered, glimpses of a verdant world projected within, before gravity shattered it against the floor of the platform, enveloping us in the suffocating vacuum of translation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Order of Goetics are a Vislae order, much like the Order of Vances mentioned in the previous work. They focus on pact magic and demon/spirit negotiations. The highest tier Goetics - sixth degrees - often have titles formatted like "Master of-" followed by their niche specialty, and they are expected to put time into curating the Goetic Hall of Records.
> 
> The item Zaros is looking for is called a Reality Seed, an item from The Strange RPG. They are creative wells disguised as small artifacts, which can be planted in rifts (usually around nexus worlds) and curated into new realities. Here he posits they're leftover from The Legacy, which the Vislae see as the spell that created the known universe.


	3. Sliske

_ Chesh. A pleasant world. Quaint. Picturesque, if you would. Small-scale agricultural ventures, a healthy relationship with the fickle incursions of vines and parasitic trees that always popped up when your back was turned for more than a fortnight. Not many people, but all human. Mundane Nons, most of them, to use the terminology of the Vislae. And ample sheep. _

_ It could have been a pleasant setting. _

* * *

Zaros had not been the only Vislae to learn of this concept of a ‘reality seed’.

Information he had conveniently neglected to impart to us. 

* * *

Azzanadra had always been strict. A perfectionist. Neat. Everything just-so. Cooking, reading, polishing his shoes, it didn’t matter. He was a tightass.

That was probably why Zaros was taken with him.

Thick as thieves, the two of them. 

* * *

We had no reason to be so disappointed by the failure of six farmboys. Yet, here we were.

* * *

She was a zilat. Incapable of most magic, but what she had was a veritable display of pyrotechnics. Even at such a larval age. 

* * *

_ Writing the narrative of an unpleasant time makes us remember the unpleasant feelings of that time as if they were happening again. _

A low drone echoed down the hall, a harbinger of destruction to any thoughtful silence. We tapped the pen, lower lip worried through with tender cracks, and folded the project aside with a long exhale.

The whir grew louder as it approached, and we rose from the chair to take up a lazy post against the door frame. The thoughtform froze a half-inch away from our sharply kicked out heel.

“Enjoying yourself?”

The vacuum sat in a solemn state of non-answer.

“Well. I am _ busy. _ Keep it down, please.”

It vibrated back to life, prodded our shoe, then backed up half a rotation and resumed the original task. Unswayed and irreverent. 

We watched it go, bump into a small door-side table, then swivel on. 

_ Maybe a change of scenery would be best anyways. _

* * *

Binder and pen in hand, Zero’s door was exactly where it needed to be. 

While possibly a paradoxical solution, the noise of a crowd - which there was plenty of - would do us better than oppressive silence had. Or, at least better than the drone of a vacuum. 

We drifted through the crowd with no particular urgency, following the pleasant flow of undulating bodies that teased propositions for other moods. A mobile serving tray tower drifted by in much the same way, and we plucked a glass off one of the higher platters.

Cognac, which a sharp elbow to the back sent down our facsimile of an airpipe.

We whirled, fixing the responsible person with a look of scorn, but she just offered a flash of finger guns as she continued on her warpath. 

“Sorry there, aye. Old friend here.”

Then she vanished, and idle curiosity prompted us on. 

We found her again at the half-populated row of barstools along the counter. 

She had settled herself down next to a scrawny weed of a man, garbed in shabby Grey clothing, with an orange cat kneading his shoulders and exhaustion pulling at his face. His hair fell in knotted tangles, captivating to the fingers, the draw unhelped by the atmosphere.

They were already well into a conversation, his voice thin and barely removed from a whine, hers boisterous and well-commanded.

We chose a table seat a reserved distance away, flipped to a fresh page, and gave up on trying to find the words. 

Lines were more appealing now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughtforms are nonsentient/nonsapient magical constructs created for specific tasks.


End file.
